


In Darkness Forgotten

by Serathurq



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Good Dumbledore, Harry Potter in Azkaban, No Horcruxes, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Slightly Deranged Harry, Some scenes of torture, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serathurq/pseuds/Serathurq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of honest wizards making mistakes, of Lords who lost their sanity in greed and darkness and of societies lost through their blind following.</p><p>But above all else… this is the story of a boy losing his innocence in war and carnage. This is the story of a boy becoming a man through the suffering of hundreds.  </p><p>This is the story of Harry James Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello. You have reached Hell’s hotline, how can we help you?

The sun was rising over the turbulent sea, lavishing the giant waves with a thousand colours. Slowly, under its ever patient eye, the ocean began to wake.  Creatures that slumbered in the night rose as they felt the sun’s touch on their coral homes. Beasts, with their everlasting hunger, slithered from their flooded beds and took up Nature’s game again.  Waves, both turbulent and smooth, continued as they always did, lavishing the earth with rich nourishment.

As the ocean slowly came to life, islands and countries alike began to rise, bound to follow the sun’s unspoken commands. Light crawled into the habituated lands, kissing the tendrils of life it sought – both man-made and those nurtured by the all loving Mother. 

Yet, as the lands and seas sparkled in the new dawn, there lay an island that the sun could never reach. Touched by darkness, and ruled by the Keepers, the island reeked of despair and death.  Alone it stood in a bubble of the darkest night, away from the animals and humans that shined with life. The island, save the lone tower it carried in its centre, was inhabited by man.

That is not to say that the tower itself was empty. For inside its barren and hollow shell lay the souls of the tortured; those countless individuals that no longer bore any resemblance to human-kind, their skeletal features a mere reflection of the empty souls they carried.

It is in this tower that our story begins.

(҉)

The years had not been good for the cell. At the top of the tower the cell stood alone, isolated by a whole level from the other prisoners. It had long since weathered the storms with waning strength, until its stony exterior began to erode and crumble - its roof nothing more than a thin barrier between the never ending darkness and the cell inhabitant inside. Cracks littered the walls, so that when lightning and rain howled through the night, rivers ran through the fissures, only to fall into the parched lips of the prisoner inside.   Always parched, for poisoned gales always sought the man inside, storming inside and wrapping cold limbs around frail, emaciated bones, drawing out any warmth that the man might have procured from his thin garments.

And the smell.

Isolated as the prisoner was, the guards of the tower often forgot to cast a cleaning spell. The rancid odour of excrement and urine had long followed the bearded man, torturing him with their loving touch, eroding his sense of smell so that by time, the man was standing adrift in a current of…nothing.

Nothing….for his sight had deteriorated when they had stolen his glasses, so that all he could see was colours and blurs - remnants of the beautiful world he used to live in.

And Harry, who had lived inside the cell for 15 years, and was now sitting, sprawled on the cold ( _always so cold)_ floor, watched calmly as his world, his cell, disappeared with the demons’ arrival. 

 _Like clockwork_ , Harry blearily thought as two dementors entered his little abode, their glee almost tangible in the air.

And Harry screamed.

(҉)

For 15 years Harry Potter only knew pain. It spoke to him when the Keepers glided in with their frosty breath, it played with him when the nights turned to ice and darkness howled outside his walls and it touched him when, in the moments when the Keepers left, the Red Eyed Man stole command over his body.

So yes, Harry would be the first to say that he was very familiar with pain.  Pain was often the only thing he had to cling onto… his memories fading with time, abandoning him. Sometimes, when his head was clear and sanity bled through the pain, Harry would remember fragments of Before. But the Red Eyed Man would hear his thoughts ( _he always watched, he always listened)_ and would find him, and Harry would be forced to forget because pain _always_ claimed him.

It was an endless cycle.

And for 15 years it stayed the same.

Until it didn’t.

 

‘You think you can best me, Dumbledore? Me, who tainted your precious White Knight and destroyed your Ministry? I am– ’

Harry was awake in an instant, his back pressed into the wall behind him, while his eyes fruitlessly searched for the Red Eyed Man.  Silence echoed in the cell and Harry frowned. He was so sure that he had heard the slithering whisper of the Red Eyed Man.

‘I will reign supreme, Dumbledore. And you will know the meaning of fear –’

Again! But where was it coming from? If the Red Eyed Man was talking to him, Harry knew that he would already be screaming and writhing on the floor.

‘Look how easily I have disbanded your group. You, who are –’

Shivering in his thin garments, Harry wrapped his arms around his frame and clenched his eyes shut, desperate to shut out the constant pull he felt to that voice. Sometimes, when the Red Eyed Man was extremely happy, Harry’s scar would throb in excitement, its glee turning it red and sore to the touch. 

As if the nightly visions and visits from him weren’t enough.

‘Crucio!’

As the pull towards that voice grew more incessant, Harry pressed his hands against his throbbing scar and bit his tongue to stop his groans from leaving his mouth. _It’s never been this strong before,_ Harry thought to himself, rocking his self to the push-pull waves he felt; parallel to the constant waves that came from the Keepers.

‘You have been a pain in my side for far too long, old man. Avada –’

(҉)

He stood frozen, his body and mind locked onto the feel of warmth that surrounded him. Unaccustomed to anything but the frigid cold, Harry blinked open his eyes, curious to find out why the warmth had come to him in his cell.

Sunlight blinded him.

Crying out in pain, Harry threw his arms in front of his scalding eye to prevent the searing ( _alive)_ heat touching him. With a guttural moan, Harry determinedly opened teary eyes, desperate to know where the sunlight came from ( _never his decaying cell)_.  Turning his head to the light, Harry squinted at the new world around him. Though limited in his lack of his glasses, Harry could still make out a black lake (so different in its colour in comparison to the Darkness) and a large castle, their blurred beauty striking his retinas in a whirlwind of colours. 

It was a pain that Harry hadn’t felt in a long time.

And it was magnificent.

 

(҉)

For 15 years Dumbledore had tried to keep evil at bay. Day by day (year by year) he had struggled to protect the innocent from Voldemort… to do his best to save as many lives as he could. He had mentored students and friends alike, teaching them everything within their limits, overseeing their growth and constantly adding to his. It was a tiring task, but for 15 years he had preserved.

Immobilised and kneeling on the ground with the rest of the Order, Dumbledore gazed at the child he had failed above all others and shed a lone tear for the souls that his failure would cost.

Voldemort was laughing manically, his alien face twisted in pleasure at the sight of his fallen enemy. All around him chaos ruled, destroying the untouched grounds with an unholy glee that left nothing unnoticed. Death Eaters, the dozens that Voldemort had brought with him, were sadistically joining in the destruction of Hogwarts alongside the monsters and vile creatures the Dark Lord had recruited.

World-weary, Dumbledore watched as Tom began to boast. _Was he always this narcissist?_ Dumbledore mused as Voldemort took a breath before continuing his glorious speech. 

‘Crucio!’

Dumbledore clenched his teeth and swayed as his world erupted in bone-crushing pain. It took all of his will not to scream (he simply _could_ not scream in front of his friends) and soon a trail of blood dribbled down his lips as he accidently bit his tongue. After what could have been hours or minutes, the pain stopped, and panting, Dumbledore turned his gaze up at Tom.  It was with sad acceptance that he saw his fate reflected in those eyes.

‘You have been a pain in my side for far too long, old man. Avada –’

A resounding _boom_ shook the earth and a blinding light flashed in the clearing; trees lashed at the ground as their bodies were thrown by a howling wind.  

A man stood where the light struck.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in shock at the sight of the bedraggled man.  Skeletal in appearance, the man stood on thin and unsteady limbs. A mane of black shaggy hair surrounded his small face so that only his eyes could be seen under the grizzled hair. What skin was free was covered in layers of dirt, so thick that it was unclear what the man’s original colour was.

He might not have seen that face in 15 years, but Dumbledore never forgot the faces of his students.

Shocked (and still incapable of moving), Dumbledore could only gape at the _boy_ that he had once loved with all his heart –a heart that steadily fell as he realised that Voldemort now had his greatest weapon with him once again.

 

(҉)

It was similar to the torture that he had suffered in his cell: ceaseless as it was unforgiving.  

But oh! How it was glorious!

For the first time in years, Harry smiled (albeit maniacally).  Magic was once again coursing through his veins, unhindered by the vile Keepers and their dark magic. The world that he had known for years and _years_ was torn asunder as Harry reassimilated himself to the _sentient_ world in front of him.  With eyes open as wide as they could, Harry gazed at the world that was his now to control. 

‘Potter, I see you escaped your bonds.’

He might have lost his glasses a long ( _long)_ time ago, but Harry would never forget that voice. With silent trepidation, he squinted at the area where the Red Eyed Man’s voice had come from.  There, blurred but still distinctive, standing in front of what appeared to be an ensemble of people, Harry saw him.

And Harry saw red.

Not the red that muggles talked about – of anger and hate – but the red that came with torture – the red that surged from broken limbs, from open wounds and arteries, dribbling to the floor in sluggish rivers, creating molten rivers of pain, pain, _pain._

An anguished yell tore through Harry’s throat. Oh, how the red had stained his life! His nights and days were always, _always_ filled with it, until the very air in his cell was tainted with its colour. Until his body was lost in its eternal waters

No more.

With an animalistic howl, Harry grabbed the magic that was within his reach and threw it at the Red Eyed Man.

He had suffered the other’s magic for a decade. He had learnt first-hand the magic that maimed and killed.  

And in his sufferance he had learnt.

It was time for the Red Eyed Man to reap what he had sown.

(҉)

If there was one lesson that Sirius was doomed to learn over and over again, it was betrayal.

If someone told him 15 years ago that his godson would turn into a psychotic follower of Voldemort, Sirius would have laughed and punched the _lying bastard’s_ face. Harry was the sweetest boy that Sirius had had the fortune to meet.  He was kind and loving, with one of the largest hearts that Sirius had ever known (Dumbledore included).  To even suggest that Harry was dark was ludicrous.

But then _that_ happened.

Watching Harry now (those eyes were unmistakable Lily’s), Sirius saw what he had seen those long years before – a darkness so deep that it knew no bounds.  It was the darkness that waited in the shadows, ever patient and ceaseless in its plots to steal the light.  Sirius shivered, and watched with bated breaths as his ( _ex)_ godson tore the world down. 

Dark magic was unfurling from Harry in waves that blocked the sun’s light and smothered the air with the taste of ash. Harry stood in the centre, a maniacal grin on his face, his arms stretched outwards, twisting the magic in the air to form monsters from nightmares. 

Dragons, made of fire and ash, roared as they flew towards several of Voldemort’s trolls, their gaping mouths unleashing black tendrils of smoke and fire. Acromantulas, crimson red with gleaming eyes, scuttled in numbers unseeable – there aim the evil creatures that stood alongside the trolls.  Harry's own trolls, raised from the ground, lumbered forward, smashing the foolish Death Eaters that had come to their Master’s aid. Dozens of monsters were created alone in those first few minutes that Harry stood un-attacked, built for the sole purpose (so it seemed to Sirius) of annihilating Voldemort.

And the curses.

Having spent a few years as an Auror (before Wormtail had betrayed them all), Sirius was not unfamiliar with the curses that dark wizards leaned towards.  He was, however, ignorant as to where Harry had learnt them all. Ancient and modern dark spells alike were being whispered to life by Harry, tossed in tandem with Voldemort’s loud shouts.

It was there, watching Harry fighting against Voldemort, watching as those _demons_ from hell destroyed what was left of the field, where Sirius relearnt the meaning of fear.

Bone-crushing curses rained down with a river of Unforgivables, spells that tore wizard’s innards flew over basilisks made from Fiendfyre, Confringo’s, Expulso’s and numerous other spells blasted from the hands of the two wizards- creating a whirlwind of death that flashed with blinding colours.  

The only thought that circled Sirius’s head was why Harry was aiming for Voldemort and not the Order –the Order that was still immobilised and kneeling on the dirty ground only a few metres away ( _how have we not been hit by a stray curse yet?!_ ).

 

(҉)

Harry snarled as he ducked under a green tinged spell, inwardly cursing Azkaban and the Red Eyed Man for destroying his stamina (where he was always locked in, always in screams). Twisting his head around, Harry frowned as he saw another wave of his creatures be brought down by _him._  

Growling, he waved his right arm and sent another surge of Acromantulas to the Red Eyed Man, whilst his left hand shot out several killing curses in bitter retaliation.  

‘Look at you, Harry! You’ve embraced the dark arts as I taught you too! Stop this foolish fighting and join me.’ The Red Eyed Man was laughing, his pale face stretched into a fanged smile, his crimson eyes gleaming with hidden glee. He was gliding through the field toward Harry, his arms outstretched in a mockery of a loving embrace.

It was quiet in the field. A stalemate was drawn and only the yells of the Death Eaters could be heard, their wands still aimed at the legions of Harry’s monsters. Watching as a dozen Death Eaters succeeded in bringing down a troll, Harry stood up from his position behind a fallen Acromantula and faced the Red Eyed Man. ‘Never,’ Harry answered coarsely, his throat unused to anything but screams.

It was almost comical to see the rage take over the Red Eyed Man.

With a grace that belied his skeletal frame, Harry twirled away from the series of curses that followed his statement and renewed his dance with the Red Eyed Man.

Blasting through a wall of fiendfyre, Harry panted in exertion as he tried to get close enough to kill the other wizard (it was clear that the whole ‘shoot and duck’ plan wasn’t working). Tossing a killing curse to distract the Red Eyed Man from his next move, Harry sluggishly ran towards him whilst materialising in his right hand the same sword that the Red Eyed Man had used on him so many times in his dark cell.

With every second that Harry got closer, the colder the air around him turned, until Harry stopped his pursuit a few short metres away from the Red Eyed Man and squinted at his (possibly) grinning face. _Why had he stopped attacking?_

Ah.

The Keepers.

Trembling, Harry turned around and saw an endless back cloud encircle the sky and earth.  A rancid odour of decay followed the circle, so that the world was oppressed in a stench similar to the smell of rotten flesh.  

The Keepers were gliding through the still landscape, their hooded gaze focused on only one individual. It was clear that, to them, there was only one individual who was worth loving.

‘Expecto Patronum.’

 _Of course it wouldn’t work_ , Harry thought to himself, scrambling back until he was standing beside the shattered remains of his trolls. The last time he could remember casting a successful patronus was in the beginning half of his imprisonment.

As darkness began edging in the corner of his vision Harry could feel his world go tipsy, as screams and blood overtook everything else and the rattling breath of the Keepers invaded his senses.

And he was back in his cell where he was alone, surrounded by nothing but darkness and the Red Eyed Man’s taunting eyes

He knew no more.


	2. A Mr Harry Potter? Sorry, he's not available

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ummm...part two of the fight?

To say Voldemort was surprised when Potter (bloody bane of his life) miraculously apparated on the eve of his victory would be an understatement. The last time he had checked (and he visited the brat enough to know), the man had been writhing on the floor of his cell, slave to his will.

To see Potter now, free and able, infuriated him in a manner that he’d not felt since before he had enslaved the boy.  Snarling in anger, Voldemort stepped away from Dumbledore (he would deal with him later) and drew menacingly towards Potter. ‘Potter, I see you escaped your bonds,’ he whispered, smiling when he saw Potter cringe and search for him, fear clear in his eyes.

Voldemort smirked, pleased to know that the other was still bound to him. Nevertheless, the very fact that Potter was standing here and not where he had left him suggested that the boy had something up his sleeve (rags). Which would not do at all.

Perhaps it was time to stop his playing with the brat. _After all_ , Voldemort thought, _even one as mighty as me can tire from watching the one man scream day after day._

Having him here when he was just about to rid himself of the Order was just a bonus.   An unnatural smile unfurled on Voldemort’s face at the thought of his coming victory.  Smirking sadistically, he glided closer towards Potter, readying the words on his lips that would kill his ‘Dark Knight’ once and forever.

Used as he was to seeing Potter screaming for mercy, the undulating anger that began to creep over Potter’s face gave Voldemort pause.  

Something was not right.

Seething at the idea that something might ruin his hard won victory, Voldemort tossed his favourite spell over to Potter, watching with psychotic glee as a beam of green light shot towards the man’s heart.

He was not expecting the battle that followed.

 (҉)

There were very few wizards that Voldemort respected:  himself (obviously), Salazar (again, obvious) and Dumbledore (and the only reason that the meddling old coot had made his list was that, above all else, Voldemort respected power). 

Power which apparently Potter had.

Which infuriated him to no end, as that level of dark magic would have benefitted him a long time ago, had he but known.  Eyes flickering with a maniacal gleam, Voldemort unleashed a volley of colourful spells, testing the water with Potter. When Potter not only destroyed his spells, but returned them tenfold, he laughed.

It wasn’t often that Voldemort found a wizard strong enough to survive practice with him. 

With a cold smile, Voldemort decided to give his ‘knight’ one more chance. There was, after all, the chance that Potter had changed his mind. Or that he had finally sickened of their nightly sessions.  Either way, let it not be said that Lord Voldemort wasn’t merciful.  ‘Look at you, Harry! You’ve embraced the dark arts as I taught you too! Stop this foolish fighting and join me,’ he offered, voice layered in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Alas, watching the hate take over Potter’s face for a second time wasn’t nearly as entertaining as it was the first time. Yet he had given Potter the chance. It was just a pity that he chose the wrong answer. 

Without another thought, he summoned his Dementors and watched as the other’s spells faded into nothing.

(҉)

_He was in his cell. Drowning. The walls were collapsing on him, submerging him in the blood of thousands._

_He screamed, clawing at his throat when the red began slithering in his mouth, suffocating his lungs and clogging his throat, until he was gurgling and coughing and retching out his own blood._

_‘Crucio.’_

_And he was writhing on a stone floor, his screams falling on deaf ears, his pleas lost on the Red Eyed Man whose eyes always reminded him of his mother's fiery hair._

_‘Harry, you are so loved. Mama loves you. Dada loves you. Harry, be safe. Be strong.’_

_‘Step aside, silly girl.’_

_Green light was hurtling at him, eroding what was left of his vision, deafening his ears to the screams of the dead: of the Red Eyed Man laughing as he killed thousands of witches and wizard, their fates now irreversibly intertwined with his scar._

_His freak scar._

_‘You’re a freak, boy! A freak! Just like your filthy parents, a disgrace to this world and a disgrace to my house.’_

_‘Stay inside! I won’t have you showing your face to the guests!’_

_And he was in his cupboard, crammed in there by a family that couldn’t care less that he had barely any breathing space. That didn’t care that his legs and arms were always angled against his each other, pressed so tightly to each other so that he could manoeuvre his head to the small crack in his door, exhausted lungs yearning for fresh air._

_And dust was clotting in his throat, layering his body in the dead skin of others, ruining the air he so desperately needed. Bombarding him with the images of rotten and skinless bodies._

_‘You filth! You’ll stay locked up there however long I want you to.  And you’ll be lucky if I give you any dinner!’_

_He was hungry, so hungry. They were starving him, forcing him to stay in his tiny cupboard, taunting him with the smell of food outside his door, laughing at him when he uncontrollably cried out in hunger._

_He was scared._

 

 

‘Expecto Patronum.’

Gasping in air in great gulps, Harry shivered as he found himself surrounded by dozens of Keepers. They were encircling him, their rattling breaths echoing in the small distance between them.  Rotten hands were reaching for him, oh so lovingly caressing his skin, filling his head with the same (old and new) images, over and over again.

 

_‘Where are they Potter? Tell me where they are!’_

  _He was undulating on the stone floor, his screams muffled by the invisible gag that the Red Eyed had placed on him. Blood was dribbling down his chin to splatter on the grimy surface of his cell, mirroring the wound in his soul._

_But the Red Eyed Man cared not for his hurt._

_‘Where do they hide, Potter? I know that you have been there.’_

_'Ossis Effergo!'_

_And his bones were snapping, tearing holes in his lungs as if it was nothing._

 

Choking out a cry, Harry blearily opened his eyes, desperately chanting another out another spell. When nothing white appeared in his field of vision, Harry cursed his lack of happy memories. _There has to be a memory that’s untainted_ , Harry thought sluggishly, _at least just one!_  As the Keepers began to lower their hoods, Harry desperately racked his brain for some stimulation; something untouched by the Red Eyed Man or his cupboard.  

But of course!

Breathing in deeply, Harry focused on the feel of the sun’s touch and the happiness that had bubbled in his soul when his magic had reunited with him.  Eyes shut tightly; he exhaled and whispered out a faint ‘Expecto Patronum.’

(҉)

Watching Harry ( _not the same anymore, not the same baby I knew, not my godson)_ fight Voldemort whilst he was surrounded and manipulating dark magic was hard enough.  Sirius was sure that there was nothing out there that could compare to the hollow feeling in his chest when he saw his _godson_ fight Voldemort in a manner that was so parallel to the Snake Menace himself (though why he was fighting Voldemort and not the immobilised Order was still unclear to him).

So when the Dementors entered the field and enveloped Harry in their arms, Sirius could only watch in silence as his heart died out on him. And as much as he hated Harry for what he had done to them, Sirius couldn’t stop the sorrow that welled up in his heart as the Dementors lowered their hoods. After all, Harry was still James’s son, still his godson.

 _I failed you Prongs,_ Sirius thought morosely, _you and Harry both._ Turning his head to where his lover was kneeling, as frozen and useless as him, Sirius could see the same thought reflected in Remus’s face. _We both failed you._

(҉)

Hermione would be the first to say that she loved logic. If you gave her a puzzle, Hermione would willingly spend hours putting the pieces together – to wait patiently until everything fell together.

And if it took her days? Months? Well, so be it.

There was, however, one enigma that Hermione had always failed to solve. Looking at him now, as he fell lifeless in the arms of the Dementors (she wandered vaguely at the back of her mind what he had whispered before he fainted) Hermione could only wander at how Harry had turned so bad. She had done the research. She had looked at every possibility available, every nook and cranny, because the notion that her _best friend_ was evil was simply so ridiculous it bordered on being impossible. She had examined the trial months after it occurred, desperate to find the solution that would make sense.

But her research only led her to dead ends, and Hermione had succumbed to the fact that Harry had turned.

15 years later, married and well renowned for her talent as a mediwitch, Hermione still pondered at how they went wrong with Harry.  Heart saddened, Hermione craned her neck up (the only thing she could move) and cried inwardly for the little boy she had met on the train. The little boy that, if what she could remember of Cho and Harry’s failed relationship was accurate, was about to be kissed for the first time today… and by the Dementors.

 

…What was that?

 

Frowning, Hermione squinted at Harry’s figure where she could see little tendrils of white light erupting out of his prone body. Shining brighter by the second, Hermione immediately likened its colour to one spell: the patronus.

Hundreds of white lights were beginning to form into various shapes and sizes, their brightness a stark contrast to the quickly shying Dementors.  _I’ve never seen Dementors run so quickly before,_ Hermione thought dumbstruck, as a horde of animals that had finished materialising swung around to chase the Dementors, their claws, hooves and horns all ready to impale the dark demons, disintegrating them into ashes.

Still frozen in awe, Hermione could only gasp as long dead witches and wizards formed from the white light still emitting from Harry’s body. Barely able to hold in her tears, she watched as her _dead_ friends (people Harry hadn’t ever known) ran after their fellow animals and shot out their own killing curses at the Dementors.

Hermione could only fleetingly wander as to how Harry was able to continuously defy the laws of magic when her world erupted in the screeches of dying Dementors. 

(҉)

Harry screamed as his body arched in a painful arc. It was as if every bone in his body was breaking at their seams and stretching past its limits (and the Red Eyed Man made sure that he knew how that felt). It was torturous, more so then when he had first appeared in the field and his magic had reunited with him. 

This was his magic defying the rules that had been set down by Merlin.

This was magic taking every ounce of Harry's own magic and pouring it out of him in a wave of pure light.

And whereas before the Keepers darkness had surrounded his vision, Harry could now only see white. It was everywhere; clouds long since merged with the sky; trees, vague outlines against the white landscape; the sun, so bleached that its rays could no longer be seen.

And the Patronuses were  _happy._

They were chasing the Keepers, killing them with their pure aura, eroding the darkness that had surrounded Harry for more than a decade. He gasped as, just then, a white unicorn stabbed the Keeper that was constraining him.  The creature gave an unholy screech that reverberated in Harry’s skull before dropping him down and disintegrating into ash.

Dazed, and just a fair bit confused, Harry remained lying on the frozen grass under him. It could have been minutes or hours when Harry felt his magic slowly trickling back in him.  Twitching his fingers, Harry cautiously lifted his arm and stretched his right hand around the sword that had fallen a few inches to his right.  Clutching the sword tightly, Harry slowly pushed himself up so that he was half sitting, half sprawled on the ground.

Green eyes slowly took in the destruction that his magic had unleashed. With a grimace, Harry used the remaining magic in him to stand up. Staggering forward, he raised his left hand to block out the bright light from burning his eyes. _It’s so bright_ , Harry thought, _so different to the dark._ Smiling despite the pain that was radiating in his bones, Harry made his way to where the Red Eyed Man was standing…with his back turned facing him.

The Red Eyed Man was distracted.

As softly as possible, Harry edged  his way to where the bane of his life was cursing at the surviving Keepers and Death Eaters to annihilate the few remaining patronuses. It was clear that the Red Eyed Man had seen Harry fall but not rise up and had, presumably thinking Harry to be dead, moved on with his agenda.

Harry’s smile stretched wider as he realised that in the Red Eyed Man’s ignorance… he had irrevocably decided his fate.

He raised his sword.

One of the Death Eaters shouted.

The Red Eyed Man turned.

Too late.

 

(҉)

It was done.

The Red Eyed Man would rise no more.

Unable to tear his eyes from the sword that was sticking through the Red Eyed Man’s back, Harry felt relief course through his body.

It was done.

Grinning almost maniacally, Harry opened his mouth and laughed for the first time in over a decade. _Of all the ways for the Red Eyed Man to go,_ Harry thought deliriously. Knees hitting the floor, Harry howled and howled his laughter, tears of mirth trickling down his hollow eyes.  Years and years of torture at the hand of the other, and now he was dead. By his hands.

Harry didn’t know how long he sat there laughing, but it was a while, for when he opened his eyes, it was to a scene void of anything but the ash (the Keepers remains) softly blanketing the no longer frozen ground.

Smile gone, Harry turned his head and squinted his eyes. Before he had stabbed the bloody Red Eyed Man, Harry was sure that there had been several Death Eaters still alive. The lack of monsters made sense as Harry knew that they had been bonded to the Red Eyed Man’s magic, and with his death, were commanded to follow him. But there had been Death Eaters.

And Harry loved the Death Eaters with the same love he had held for their master.

Propelling himself up by the sword still stuck in the Red Eyed Man, Harry staggered forward, barely noticing the squelch that followed when the sword pulled out of the other’s chest.  With sluggish movements, he jerked himself through the mess of what remained of the field and headed to the nearest rise in the field, keen on finding out where he was exactly.

Blind as he was, Harry didn’t notice the group of wizards and witches that were still standing, relatively unharmed, on the very hill he was aiming for.

(҉)

Lucius Malfoy was many things. To list his most important traits, he was: intelligent, handsome, rich, pure of blood and _always_ on the winning team.

Looking at his Lord’s dead body but a few feet away from him, Lucius was beginning to see the appeal in reconsidering some of his life choices – that is to say, his choice in acquaintances. 

Looking around him, Lucius sniffed in disdain as he realised that the destruction of Potter’s magic included many of his fellow Death Eaters (though he was already seeing the good that could come out of their deaths) as well as the vast majority of his past Lord’s army.

Sneering, Lucius rose from his position behind a fallen tree and dusted his robes with a grace that looked somewhat out of place in the chaotic field.  Tossing one last look at Potter (wouldn’t that boy ever learn to groom himself?), Lucius noted that the man-child was still lost in his insanity. With a satisfied smile, he silently left the field, noticing out of the corner of his eye that he was not the only one.

With a flick of his wand, Lucius apparated away, mind already on his next plan.

(҉)

Voldemort was dead.

To say that the Order was shocked would be an understatement. For years they had infiltrated the Death Eaters with the risk of being found out, putting friends and families at risk. For years they had fought battle over battle, desperately trying to keep the evil at bay, desperately trying to keep hope alive.

And for years, they had tried to get close to Voldemort.

 _Yes_ , Dumbledore thought, his eyes trained at his ex-student’s dead body, _to say we’re surprised would be a large understatement._ Eyes twinkling jovially for the first time in a very long time, Dumbledore smiled and _relaxed._

The war was over.

Oh, there would still be battles. Trials would need to start immediately, policies would need to be re-implemented, programs would have to be introduced to aid in the remaking of the wizarding world, as well as countless other matters that needed to be attended to. But Tom was dead and the _war_ was finally over.

And they had one man to thank.

Jovial no more, Dumbledore turned wary eyes at where he could see Harry crouching over Voldemort’s dead body. Watching as his past student began to cackle uncontrollably, Dumbledore wandered whether the reason Harry hadn’t joined Voldemort was due to his clear insanity.  Mulling over this idea, Dumbledore began stroking his beard (a habit he picked up from Hagrid) and ignored the Order’s excited chatter. He froze just a few seconds later, his eyes fixated on the enigma.

Harry had risen.

Summoning his wand from where it remained unharmed on a rock (and thank goodness Voldemort never realised its power), Dumbledore watched as Harry drunkenly made his way to the hill that the Order was on. Out of the corner of his eye, Dumbledore noticed that the Order had fallen silent.

Focus still trained on Harry, Dumbledore noticed immediately when Harry was aware that he was not alone.  It was hard not to notice, really, as Harry’s mouth (well, what could be seen of it under that hair) was stretched in a feral snarl and his eyes glinted coldly in the afternoon light.

Just as Harry begun a sloping run, face distorted in hate and bloody sword raised in the air, Dumbledore shot out a stunning spell.

It did not reach Harry.

(҉)

There were people standing on the hill.  Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

They were standing, bodies still and heads turned towards him. Snarling, as he realised that they were clearly watching them, Harry quickened his pace forward.  One of them, an old man by the looks of it, was holding a wand in his hand – a wand that was directed straight at Harry’s heart.

 _Ah, they must be the surviving Death Eaters._ With an angry howl, Harry ran towards the old man, raising his sword in preparation for his next fight.  He might not recognise the man from any of his _dreams_ , but the man was raising his wand. It was clear that he meant to hurt Harry.

But Harry would hurt him first.

‘Avada-’

‘Stop! Harry, they are not who you think they are. They are your kin, Harry!’

Harry gasped and nearly fell down in his rush to turn around to his right. There, glowing with the ethereal beauty that Patronus charms tend to give, stood his mother and father.  Both grasping ash covered swords in their hands, his parents were laughing joyously and running toward him.

They were beautiful.

Dropping his own sword with a dull thud, Harry ran to his parents and flung himself towards them. He was crying, his tears blurring his sight as he hurdled past debris and dead bodies, arms flung wide and ready to receive his parents: Lily who was laughing whilst crying and James, who wasn’t that far behind, his face stretched into a huge grim, his eyes wet.

Parents and son met in a flash of light that blinded the Order.

(҉)

The light that had blinded the Order faded slowly.  Opening their eyes, the Order blinked the last vestiges of white light from their vision and dazedly took a few steps forward.

As murmurs and whispers broke out in the ranks, Sirius and Remus (who alone seemed to have noticed the identity of the last two Patronuses) strode forward eagerly.  Remus, a few steps ahead of Sirius, raked his eyes through the desolate field, sharp eyes searching for one thing only. ‘Over there!’ he called out sharply, his finger pointed to the unconscious body of Harry.   

It was with grim satisfaction that the two lovers watched Harry’s body being taken away by the Order. They had questions to ask the man.  _Questions that need to be answered_ , Remus thought as he watched Sirius gaze at the spot where they had seen James and Lily.

Sirius turned and faced Remus, his own promise reflected in his eyes _. We’ll get them if it’s the last thing we do._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate? Love? Noticed a mistake? Do tell. 
> 
> Oh, and I really don't know what I'm doing here. I should say sorry...but I won't. Oh, and Voldemort has no horcruxes in this. Or looked for the Deathly Hallows. With Harry in Azkaban, his wand always won and hence, he had no reason to go searching.


	3. You’ll have to take the matter to the ministry. As we said, Mr. Potter isn’t available.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: When I look into the Mirror of Erised, I see myself owning Harry Potter.

_Harry woke with a jolt and sat up, swearing silently when he banged his head on the low ceiling of his cupboard. Blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, Harry pressed his right hand against the forming bruise on his head and cringed at the bump he felt. Turning his head to the door pressed against him (he really was too big for the small cell), Harry did his best to look through it. From what he could ascertain through the small gaps in the door, the night’s embrace was still gently enveloped around Number 4._

_It was quiet and peaceful-  though that thought did nothing to lessen the worry that was forming in Harry’s stomach. Something had woken him up. Harry was a soft sleeper long accustomed to the noises of a slumbering house. His body had long adjusted and no longer woke at the sound of the creaks of the Dursleys when they woke or of the chatter of the night crawlers under floor panels. So what had woken him up? Not a nightmare, and certainly not the Dursleys (who were heavy sleepers on most days), but something else._

_A soft creak._

_The patter of light footfalls._

_And Harry was wide awake, body pressed as far away as he could from his flimsy door. Cursing the Dursleys for stowing away his wand (and everything else he owned) in Dudley’s spare room, Harry tried to still his beating heart and simultaneously blend in with the flaky paint on the cupboard walls._

_Another creak._

_The whisper of cloth rubbing on wood_ (Merlin, was that a cloak?).

_And then Harry heard something that caused his heart to stop and his body to double its shivers. Someone was whispering in Parseltongue. And last time Harry checked, there was only one other wizard that spoke Parseltongue._

_Hoping against hope that he could still access some form of accidental magic within him (though he knew that, nearing 16, any uncontrollable magic would have long settled down in his core), Harry fisted his hands and watched the door with bated breaths._ It’s all or nothing _, he thought, as a line of light appeared to indicate the cupboard opening._

_The gap widened slowly as if the person opening it was in no rush, revealing a fanged smile and piercing red eyes. ‘Ah, Harry. What a wonderful surprise to see you so soon.’_

_Harry scrambled back as much as he could (which wasn’t a lot) and threw his arms in front of him, praying to Merlin that his magic would respond in time (or at all)._

_(He tried not to scream when nothing came out)._

_A forked tongue slithered out of a pale mouth and the smile stretched further. ‘None of that now, Harry. I’ve come as a guest.’_

_Before he knew it, Harry was petrified and levitated through the cupboard into the Dursleys hall. Whilst struggling furiously with the invisible bonds (futile as it may be), Harry made sure to keep his eyes trained on the pale snake in front of him._

_Red eyes gleamed with a psychotic gleam as the two (one gliding, one floating) entered the room adjacent._

_There was blood everywhere.  It drenched the white walls with rivers, splattered the floor with deep pools and dripped from the ceiling in small waterfalls._

_Feeling nauseous, Harry turned his gaze away from the scene (or tried to turn as his frozen state did little to dispel his vision from the gore) and tried to calm his beating heart. To his left, at the very edge of his peripheral vision, Harry could see the pale wizard staring intently at the red staining the room with the same stretched smile from before._

_Shite._

_‘Ah, Mr. Potter. Finished already?’_

_Confused (as it was clear that he was not in fact doing much of anything and hence had nothing to finish), Harry struggled to tilt his head just a little bit, even if it was useless, to see what Voldemort was looking at._

_‘I had thought that you would want to play longer with your food.’_

_Slowly, painstakingly, Harry moved his head a quarter of an inch to his right. Panting from the effort it had taken to move his head that little bit, Harry peered into the shadowy crevice that his adversary was looking at._

_A mane of black hair._

_Emerald eyes hidden behind taped glasses._

_Scrawny legs that were wobbling in the still air as if a gust of wind could blow them over._

_A mouth dripping with the same red that was scattered around the room._

_…_

_And a face that Harry saw every day in his mirror._

(҉)

Sitting comfortably on a large, over-stuffed armchair in the large dining room of 12 Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore watched the fireplace twinkle away with a small frown ruining his otherwise blank face. Upstairs, in the Order’s designated interrogation room (a musty room with one wooden chair fixed to the floor) was a tied Harry Potter.

After the Battle of the Red Eve (as it was being called in the Prophet), the Order had been hard-pressed in getting Harry’s body out of the charred remains of Hogwarts fields. Reporters ( _funny how they only show up afterwards_ , Dumbledore mused) had been swarming the grounds with flashing cameras and floating quills, their shouts covering the cries of loved ones clinging to loved ones. Dumbledore had had to resort to his magic to push the crowd away. Once inside the castle, it was only the matter of using a portkey away from prying eyes to reach Headquarters.

Sighing softly, Dumbledore roused himself and stood up to walk to where their prisoner was.  Barely aware of climbing the rickety staircase, he entered the interrogation room and saw that Sirius, Remus, Snape and Harry’s previous best friends were standing in a semi-sphere around the man tied to the chair.

‘The others?’

Five sets of eyes turned to face the Headmaster, all as determined as the one next to them.

‘Had other business to attend to’, Remus replied grimly.

Dumbledore sighed, knowing that the ‘other business’ was burying friends and family. ‘Very well, are we ready to commence?’

Snape tilted his head in a show of acknowledgement and beckoned the old man forward. ‘Did you bring my supply of Veritaserum?’

Tilting his own head, Dumbledore slipped his hand in one of the many pockets in his purple robe and drew out a small crystal jar containing the potion. ‘Would I be here if I didn’t?’

A rough intake of air drew Dumbledore’s gaze to where Sirius was standing next to Remus, both sets of arms wrapped protectively around the other.  With a pale face that mirrored the one he wore 15 years ago, Sirius took an involuntary step towards Dumbledore, barely able to stop himself from grabbing the potion and running away. ‘Must we put ourselves through it again, Albus? Was it not enough the last time? We will not learn anything new.’

Sad eyes looked at Sirius, a weary mouth frowning as it formed an answer. ‘We must, Sirius, lest we miss something and pay the price for it.’

Hermione, always the logical one, nodded her head in agreement. In a calm voice (betrayed by the white knuckles grasping Ron’s hand) she turned to Sirius, ‘He’s right, Sirius. Though Harry may have killed Voldemort for us, it does not change the fact that he has been imprisoned for a long time. Perhaps he will be willing to tell us something on the remaining Death Eaters if we-’

‘If you think the wizarding world will release him, Hermione, you’re wrong!’

‘Sirius!’ Placing a calming hand on Sirius’s shoulder, Remus faced his lover and gave a beseeching smile. ‘We won’t release him Sirius, no matter what he tells us. He’s still a murderer after all. We just want to see whether Voldemort kept any contact with him.’

‘Thank you, Remus’, Hermione gratefully said. ‘As I was saying, seeing that Harry killed his Master, it’s clear that he’s no longer aware of people. In his trial’, she winced, ‘it was clear that he knew nothing worthwhile about Voldemort’s Death Eaters. And though his mind has decomposed so to speak, it might retain within it some information that Voldemort provided him during his first years in Azkaban.’

‘Excellent as always, Hermione’, Dumbledore said with a soft smile. ‘Now please, Sirius. The sooner we see what he knows, the faster he’ll be returned to Azkaban.’

Clearly still peeved, Sirius merely sighed and nodded his head in grudging acceptance.

Dumbledore, ever aware of the pain in everyone’s heart, merely tossed the potion to Snape. It would do no good to dwell on old wounds and the faster they administered the potion, the quicker they could all go to forgetting about the man tied to the chair.

‘Wake him up.’

‘Rennervate.’

(҉)

Harry jerked awake with a gasp, unaware of where he was and unseeing to anything but his ceaseless memories.  He screamed and tried to stand, ready to run from his nightmares. But something was tying him down, imprisoning him with heavy chains and intricate spells.

Horror overcame Harry’s memories at the feel of being tied down _again_ and suddenly he was furious.  He had escaped from his living hell, had killed the Red Eyed Man and _by Merlin_ , did he not deserve just one day of freedom before he was dragged to another cell!? Howling in rage, Harry continued his thrashing, desperately straining against the metal chains around him.

A hard slap met his face and Harry was suddenly brought back to reality. Dazed, Harry blinked and took in the room in fractures: a room, bare and smothered in the dust of decades. Blurred shapes that were clearly people standing as a barrier between him and a door. And in front of him, closer than the others, standing regal and proud, the old man who had shot at him before.

At the sight of the Red Eyed Man’s followers, Harry howled louder and doubled his struggling. Another slap startled him and Harry suddenly found his head wrenched back as a withered hand gripped his hair and held his face steady.

‘Quickly now, Severus! Put the potion down his throat!’

Before Harry could do as much as bite the perpetrator’s hand, a clear substance was being forced down his throat.

  
(҉)

Seeing his once best friend howling and thrashing in confines was just as unpleasing as it had been the first time during Harry’s trial. There was just something inherently wrong with seeing the man he had shared his dorm with for five years being tied down like an animal.

Closing his eyes as Harry slowly succumbed to the drugged effect of Veritaserum, Ron took a deep breath and tried to calm his beating heart. _You’ve done this before_ , he thought to himself, _you’ve done this before and you can do it again. Just remember what he’s done._

‘Is your name Harry James Potter?’

Ron was brought back to reality with Dumbledore’s brisk question. Opening his eyes quickly, he steeled himself and turned his whole attention to where Harry was nodding his head in jerky movements. A puppet on strings.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Dumbledore asked harshly.

When Harry looked at Dumbledore blankly before calmly nodding his head, Ron grasped Hermione’s hand tightly and pressed his body against her. Understanding the turmoil that was going through Ron, Hermione smiled sadly and pressed her own body against his, sharing as much comfort with him as possible. Once again Ron was made to wonder what he had done to deserve such a strong and beautiful woman.

‘All seems to be in order,’ Dumbledore said softly to Severus. When no answer came, Dumbledore only smiled at his friend’s sullen demeanour and turned back to Harry. ‘Alright, Mr. Potter, did the Dark Lord share anything with you during your incarceration? Anything about his plans? His storage areas?’

It was a simple question. Yet Dumbledore, Ron nor the Order could have foreseen the reaction to it. 

Now, Veritaserum was a lethal potion, meant to render the will of its patient to nothing so that all that remained was a brain with no filter.  And the potion had worked splendidly, with Harry’s answers to the previous two questions testimony of this.

But when Harry’s face contorted with rage and his vacant eyes gleamed with anger, Ron took an involuntary step back.

The potion had stopped working.

And Harry was struggling again, his hands beginning to bleed as they continually pulled against their confinements. Worse, his echoed shouts began to reverberate in Ron’s head, until Ron began to feel nauseous at the words.

‘I’LL KILL YOU, FILTH!  I’LL KILL YOU _ALL_ AND _BURN_ YOUR HEARTS OUT!’

‘Stupefy.’

Ron jumped and gaped at Snape. The potions master had his wand in his right hand and a sneer etched on his face.  Said mouth opened and a sickly sweet drawl wafted through the room, ‘I was getting sick of his babbling. It’s clear that there’s nothing useful we can gain from Potter if he cannot let loose anything but threats.’

Ron shivered.  No matter what Albus said about Snape’s loyalty, Ron was under no illusion that the slimy git was evil.  There was something _off_ when Snape spoke…something slimy and twisted. But putting that aside, Ron looked to the rest of the room to see their reaction. One look at Sirius and Remus was enough to know that they too were rubbed as raw as him. Their eyes, like Hermione and his, looked pained. Tired.

Dumbledore nodded and waved a hand tiredly, crooked fingers beckoning Snape to Harry’s unconscious form. ‘You’re right, Severus. I don’t know what I was thinking we would gain. It would be better simply to return him to Azkaban.’

And Ron could only watch, as silently and bone-weary as the first time, as Harry ( ~~his _brother_~~ _)_ was dragged out of the room.

 (҉)

‘Is your name Harry James Potter?’

Harry James Potter? Yes, the Red Eyed Man would call him that when they were alone in his cell…would lovingly whisper it as he caressed his body and bled him dry. He nodded, hardly able to move his leaden head.

‘Do you know who I am?’

Harry peered at the old man sluggishly, slowly. He knew that face, recognised it as the one that tried to harm him on the field. The Death Eater. He nodded again and watched with unseeing eyes as the old man moved from his sight for a second. In the next, the old man was back and peering intently into Harry’s eyes.

‘Alright, Mr. Potter, did the Dark Lord share anything with you during your incarceration? Anything about his plans? His storage areas?’

No…Harry didn’t know of any Dark Lord. But wait…yes, the Death Eaters would often call the Red Eyed Man by that name in his dreams ( _dreams of anguish and death, of meetings and nights of plunder)_.

The Red Eyed Man.

His plans.

 

_‘Cease with your struggles, Potter. It will only prolong your torture.’_

_He was writhing uncontrollably on the stone floor, mind lost to the torture. Blood was slowly pooling underneath his flailing limbs, smoothing his body’s throes as he slipped and slid in the crimson pools, adding to his pain as shattered bones met the hard floor._

_His screams had long since died out, throat ripped raw from their exposure to the Red Eyed Man. His gurgles were the only things left, little murmurs that could barely be heard over the sound of flesh slapping the floor._

_A pause._

_He gasped in relief and turned his head sideways, mouth opening as his throat retched up his lungs in a mixture of blood and unidentifiable blobs that splattered on the dirty floor aimlessly._

_The soft slide of cloth over stone made him turn his right eye (left eye bruised and swollen) to the Red Eyed Man. A fanged smile met his gaze and the Man licked his lips as he bent down to softly caress his cheek. His shiver of revulsion only saw the smile widen, and a soft whisper, a promise, travelled through his clouded senses._

_The same words, whispered in his skin day after day, leaving sick trails of adoration and promises behind._

_‘Now, now, Harry…my brave little child. Tell me what you know about Dumbledore’s plan and I will stop your self-inflicted torture.’_

_Coughing, he glared with his working eye and painstakingly raised his head an inch to spit a glob of saliva and blood in the other’s face._

_‘Defodio.’_

_The spell, which was only meant to be used on materials when architecting, was destroying the only substantial material it could find in his body. His bones._

_His body audibly_ cracked _as 206 bones broke and split into thousands of sharp knives that tore into his insides_ _. His neck twisted as his vertebral_ disintegrated _, and he tried to scream but he couldn’t because his mouth was broken and he was dying, his body tethered only to the Red Eyed Man’s will, forcing him to stay alive and it was_ agony. _And his vision was clouding, his sight etched with white and black tendrils that promised relief – a sadistic reminder of the curse put on him that forced him conscious in the other’s presence_ (never any relief) _._

_And all the while the Red Eyed Man smiled serenely at Harry, red eyes gleaming in the dark light of the cell. ‘I have patience, Potter, I can wait.’_

Harry was back in the Death Eaters’ interrogation room, mind free of the gripping claws of the Veritaserum.  He took in a shaky breath but paused as he saw the Death Eaters staring at him, their dark eyes still looking at him as if he could bring them closer to their dead Master.

But he had had enough. _If I can kill their Master_ , Harry thought deliriously, _I can certainly kill them too._ He shouted out the first threat he could think of as he renewed his struggles, determined to follow it through when he escaped his bonds ( _always tied, never free)._

 ‘I’LL KILL YOU, FILTH!  I’LL KILL YOU _ALL_ AND _BURN_ YOUR HEARTS OUT!’

…

Harry woke to filthy walls and an endless night. 

Hatred such as nothing Harry ever felt before filled his body at the sight of his cage.  Lurching himself at the barred door, he rattled the steel bars and screamed himself hoarse.  His cries of anguish and hate echoed around the empty floor, rocketing off the weather-beaten rocks to escape outside.

But the night did not answer his calls, or his tears. It was the Keepers, those that had not been present on the Red Eve, which heard the man’s cry. They glided fervently to his floor and took in his shivering form into their hands (the bars never stopped them) and took their fill.

After all, they had always loved the man that lived in that cell. Why should they not answer his pleas for aid? 

 (҉)

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

The six months that followed the Battle of the Red Eve saw Britain slowly getting back to her feet. The first month saw celebration after celebration – such as those the wizarding world had not known for many years. But slowly, as the hype died down, order began to restore itself. Policies were destroyed and old ones were edited and reinstated under the watchful gaze of Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt (who had been named Minister when old Rufus was assassinated five years ago). Rogue Death Eaters were caught and put to trial before the public, whose raucous demands often saw those individuals sentenced (though it did not surprise many when Lucius and his family weaselled their way out).

It was slow going but surely and steadily the peace that wizarding Britain had not known for nearly two decades returned.

(҉)

 

Sirius Black, exhausted and half-awake, sat on the wooden bench in Courtroom Ten with half-open eyes and a mind that desperately needed sleep.  He was here as a representative of the Order to hear one of the last trials of the captured Death Eaters.  Mentally cursing Tonks for ever getting him to agree to this, Sirius tried to cover a yawn and straightened his back as Shacklebolt walked in the room.

All around him reporters whirled, their cameras flashing and their quills floating above them. A great roar of sound echoed around the vast room, sending snatches of conversations to anyone bothered enough to listen. 

Mentally feeling sorry for Shacklebolt for having to deal with all the ruckus, Sirius slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. Merlin, how he wished he could return to his lover.  It would be _so good_ to just relax and enjoy the peace with Remus, to sit back (maybe cuddled together) and sleep for an eternity. Alas, Shacklebolt’s call for order had him let his dream go and sit back straight, eyes open to the scene in front of him.

Antonin Dolohov was being dragged in the courtroom by two burly Aurors who simply had to tug on the thick chain around Dolohov to get him moving.  Considering how beaten Dolohov looked, it didn’t surprise Sirius that only a small tug was needed. Black and blue bruises littered the Death Eater’s arms and any remaining space was covered with lacerations and infected wounds. (Sirius wouldn’t lie. The sight of the other’s misery made his so far horrid day slightly happier).

Forced into the cold and metal interrogation chair, Dolohov was quickly given Veritaserum.

And so the trial began.

 

Sirius was bored.

He had been sitting on an uncomfortable chair in an uncomfortable room for two hours now, listening to a very boring tirade. Twice he had fallen asleep only to be woken abruptly by the _click_ of a photo being taken or the loud roars of the public. Blearily opening his eyes, unaware of when exactly he had closed them, Sirius added another dash to that score, making it thrice. Stretching his somnolent limbs skyward, Sirius yawned and peered dazedly at Shacklebolt’s energetic form. _Merlin_ , Sirius sluggishly thought, _how does he do that?_

‘And finally, Mister Dolohov, are you privy to any information regarding the actions of Mister Harry Potter on the Battle of the Red Eve?’

Suddenly wide awake, Sirius sat up straight and turned his attention to the sweating form of Dolohov. Of course, Sirius knew why Shacklebolt was asking that question, the whole Order did. When news of Harry killing Voldemort leaked to the public, the wizarding world had demanded answers. Some had begun to question the Minister for locking him back in Azkaban, protesting that perhaps Harry had finally repented and was ready to be reinstated into society. But despite the Order reiterating that Harry was insane, no one would believe them. Hence Shacklebolt had taken it upon himself to question every Death Eater about Harry. Many of the Death Eaters simply gave blank looks; others had laughed and mocked the public for their continual love of the Boy-Who-Lived when they themselves had heard the Dark Lord praise Potter.

But none had known anything.

‘The man's actions did not come as a surprise to me. I saw it coming a long time ago.’

Until now, it seemed.

Dolohov suddenly had the undivided attention of the entire audience. Shacklebolt, his excitement clear on his aged face, leaned as far as he could on his bench to look at Dolohov. ‘Why do you say that?’

Dolohov, mind still immersed in the truth potion, replied in the same monotonous voice he had been using for the past two hours.  ‘Well, there was an occasion nearly 16 years ago, where the Dark Lord required me to go undercover in France. He had created this potion that would enable the user to speak a language fluently for a long period-’

‘How does this have anything to with Potter?’ Shacklebolt interrupted abruptly.

The same monotonous voice replied, as if it was never interrupted. ‘I do not think the Dark Lord was aware of the potions potential, because I realised a few weeks into my cover that the potion enabled me to speak all tongues. It was upon my return to the Dark Lords headquarters, however, that I realised that the potion also enabled the user to speak Parseltongue. I was passing the Master’s quarters when I heard him speak to his snake…’

‘Yes?’

‘He was congratulating himself on successfully ridding himself of Potter forever and that the ploy he had used to frame the boy worked. So to me,  Potter’s actions didn't come as a surprise because if I had been enslaved wrongly… the first thing I would do upon my escape would be to kill they who framed me.’

Silence fell in the courtroom, cloaking the room in a heavy fog that lasted but for a minute. Sirius barely heard Shacklebolt’s following questions (of why Dolohov never told anyone else, did he know of any other information and so on), too busy with holding the roof of his world up.

Face a pale white, Sirius fell to the floor with a crash that went unheard in the deafening shouts of the crowds. And as he contemplated the possibility that his godson was innocent, that he had irrevocably thrown him into the same prison that he himself had once been, Sirius could only think one thought.

_Merlin, forgive us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So, what do you think? Like? Hate? Do tell.
> 
> I was initially going to have the Order find out the truth during their interrogation of Harry, but in the end I decided that they would have no need to ask those questions. I chose to have them realise something was wrong 6 months on, because realistically, recovering from a war takes a long time, and the trials of bad guys usually takes ages.


	4. Haven’t you heard? We no longer have custody over him. Mr Potter is now under the control of the Order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonds do not mend in one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahah.
> 
> I'm back? Please don't kill me?
> 
> Now unto the story!

There was a crack in the dining room wall of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Thin and gnarled, it curled around the wall directly opposite the marble fireplace, its black tendrils covering the ugly green wallpaper. The crack’s depth was immeasurable – its darkness total and complete. Its roots had long since touched the houses foundation, slowly chipping away its stability and magic, ever growing as the house decayed.

The crack had appeared on the night of Harry’s conviction and had continued to grow in size and depth since then.

When the crack had first appeared, Sirius, still reeling from the despair and heartache of Harry’s betrayal, went on a house cleaning spree. Though the house had never before looked as clean as it did when Sirius finished, he had hit a metaphorical wall when he found the crack. Despite the number of spells and tricks Sirius tried, the crack had persisted and so, exhausted, he had commanded Kreacher to magically remove it.

Kreacher hadn’t been able to walk for a week (his body bruised from its toss to the ceiling).

Frustrated, Sirius had all but begged Albus to try, to which the old man had smiled and happily agreed. But instead of fixing it, the crack had only enlarged and Albus had met a similar fate as Kreacher (but unlike Kreacher, there was nothing funny about an old man being tossed to the ceiling and, indeed, nothing funny about what Sirius had glimpsed under Albus’s robes). 

Since then, any attempt at removing the crack was met with the same result. Eventually, the Order accepted the crack as another part of the Dark House of Black and learned to ignore its cold winds and chilling darkness.

 

Sitting on his ratty couch, Sirius tore his gaze away from the crack and sighed. Rubbing his forehead wearily, he contemplated the perilous situation he now found himself at.

It was exactly two weeks since Dolohov suggested that Harry was innocent. Since then, the Order and Ministry had been drowning in waves of paperwork, all from concerned wixens and nose-butting journalists. Eventually, negotiations were made and papers were signed.

All of which accumulated to one thing: Harry Potter was now at Grimmauld Place.   
  
The man ( _no longer his boy_ ) was sleeping in Regulus’s room, the room dusted and cleaned before his stupefied body was brought in. They had decided (they being the Order and the Minister) that Harry should remain ‘knocked’ out for his transfer, as reports from Azkaban showed that Harry was acting up – his screams unending. The choice was therefore made to leave his body on a permanent hiatus – to be woken only when a mediwitch could look at his mental and physical psych and… when Severus finished making Veritaserum.

They had to be sure.

They had to ask the right questions this time.

 

As Harry’s still legal godfather, Sirius was legally the only person allowed to be in the room during Harry’s medical examination. Looking at the _broken_ body in front of him, Sirius was glad that no one else would see this. He was feeling nauseous just looking at him.

It was clear that since their interrogation (though, to be honest, Sirius hadn't been paying much attention back then), Harry’s body had gained another twenty layers of dirt. Yellow skin, pasty and pockmarked, littered the areas where the dirt had been scrubbed off – thick layers of black and brown grit and trash that seemed perfectly moulded to skin, testimony of years of living in one’s waste with no access to water.

And the scars. _Merlin_.

Sirius had never seen any individual in all his life with as many scars and _mutilations_ as Harry. There were dozens of them - large and small grotesque lines that criss-crossed Harry’s body in large, jagged lumps (scars that Sirius had seemingly ignored when they had first taken him in). Some were white, their colour faded over the years; others pink, fresh with the colour of recent torture.  One of Harry’s fingers (his ring finger) was a stump from the knuckle, a gnarled and dying thing. The others were all twisted and crooked – as if they had been broken and healed that way multiple times.  

In fact, if Sirius was being honest, Harry’s entire figure was twisted in an odd shape, as if it too had been broken and mended on numerous occasions.

_Torture_ , Sirius thought somewhat deliriously, fighting his tears at the sight. 

‘I’ve never seen anything like this’, stated the mediwitch in a hushed tone (Hermione hadn’t been able to do it herself; nerves shaken with the possibility that Harry was innocent).

Dragging his eyes away from Harry, Sirius raised an eyebrow at the middle-aged, pale nurse. ‘What do you mean?’ he questioned hoarsely.

‘Well’- she paused, inhaling a sharp breath- ‘to put it bluntly, this man shouldn’t be alive. Judging by the scars and the dark magic littering this man’s blood, I can only presume that he has been subjected to torture for the duration of his whole imprisonment. There are clear signs of long exposure to the Cruciatus and numerous other dark spells. His body is littered with the remnants of curses that I can’t even identify.’

‘What does this mean towards his health?’ he asked tiredly, voice wrecked as if he was the one that had been tortured.

‘I’ve healed what I can with the time you’ve given me today, and i'll be coming in to see him every few days, but he’ll need check-ups for the rest of his life. The number of problems that this man is experiencing...' here she paused, her green eyes looking sorrowfully at the man with the broken body. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Sirius and continued in a somber voice, 'To list just some of his physical ailments: his mobility is limited- he will likely never be able to play any sports or exert himself too much - he's malnourished to the extent that it will permanently hinder his future prospects of a healthy lifestyle, his eyesight is less than 10% in both of his eyes and…’

‘What?!’

‘He’ll be in chronic pain for the rest of his life…’

(҉)

Hermione sat desolately on the torn couch, barely registering the muffled conversations going around her.  Ron was sitting next to her on her right, holding her hand with his own clammy one ( _he's nervous_ , Hermione’s subconscious said).  Around them, members of the Order bickered back and forth, arguing about Harry’s innocence.

Some, like Hagrid, believed it immediately.

Others, particularly those who never met Harry, questioned it.

But Hermione…

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure, but she simply could not conceive how she _might_ have been wrong. Just the thought made her nearly lose her stomach.

_One of her best friends_.

_Her little brother._

Turning green, Hermione turned to Ron and rested her head on his tense shoulders. ‘What if we were wrong?’ she whispered.

She felt his response with his tightened grip over her hand and the large shaky breath he exhaled on her forehead. ‘If we’re wrong… we’ll do everything we can to make him better. We’ll help him.’

 She could accept that.

 

Fred and George were lounging around in the kitchen, Ginny sitting opposite to them.  All three of them hadn’t been able to stomach being in the living room, where the other members were discussing Harry’s fate as if he didn’t even _exist._

Fred gazed at his distraught sister and sighed, elbowing George who was staring desolately at the cabinets.

‘What?’ George mumbled, barely aware that his twin had even touched him. Turning bleary eyes to Fred, George followed his gaze to their sister and furrowed his brow.

Not needing to ask each other, both twins stood up and walked around to where Ginny was shedding silent tears.

‘Oh Ginny…’ both twins breathed out.

Turning pleading eyes to her brothers, Ginny sobbed and lunged at Fred (the closest) and wrapped herself around him.

‘What if we were wrong?’ she asked them, ‘what then?’

What indeed.

 

Luna was sitting on a crooked chair in Headquarters, silently watching the members of the Order argue with each other. Taking a sip from her cup of chamomile tea, she wandered whether they realised that arguing was one of the biggest ways to beckon the Blibbering Humdinger – a creature who loved the chaos that disquieted souls brought with them.

Honestly, Luna didn’t know why they were arguing. Harry was innocent.

If there was one thing Luna prided herself in, it was her ability to read people and their souls. From the moment she had met Harry in her fourth year, Luna knew that there was no soul in the world more beautiful than his. His spirit, despite being weighed down by responsibility and the taint of Voldemort, shone with such a pure light that it simply drew everyone to him. He was a free spirit that was chained by his love to help others. And Luna had fallen under his spell when he had shared his kindness with her – welcoming her and believing her stories.

Even when the whole world went against Harry’s back, Luna always persisted in her belief – regardless of the hate she got for it. Nearly 16 years later and it was as she had said.  _Harry was innocent_ (oh, the world would find out soon enough). She beamed at that thought and stared distantly at the wall opposite her.

Her friend was back.

Her smile fell and steel eyes glanced at the roof above her head, where she knew Harry was being examined by a mediwitch.

Luna vowed she would be there for Harry this time. She refused to let him down anymore.

 

(҉)

Sirius trudged down the stairs with his head hanging, his aged hands grasping the rail tightly. _Torture_ , that one word rolled around his head, banging on every wall he had ever built around his godson.

Don’t get Sirius wrong, he was no fool. He knew of the torture that Azkaban contained, knew it intimately – the excruciating, pulsating darkness that followed the Dementors. He could still taste the grit and blood that layered his cell, could still hear the tortured screams of the inmates in their cells, could feel the skeletal hands of the Dementors as they caressed you through the cells – unceasing in their attempts to get through the magical barrier that protected the inmates from the kiss.

But this… this was a different torture.

This was Voldemort.

And that made all the difference.

Making his way to the living room where he could hear the Order members gather, Sirius prayed that Snivellus had a bottle of Veritaserum ready. There had to be a way to get around the stupid brewing time the potion required. Sirius didn’t have time to wait a whole month.

He had to know if his godson was innocent.

Walking into the dim room where everyone was seated, Sirius barely noticed the hush that fell over the whole room at his arrival.  Spotting Remus, Sirius barely managed to get to his lover’s side without falling over.

He simply had to know.

 

‘Well?’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s guilty! Who cares if he’s well or not! I say we toss him back to Azkaban-’

‘Vance! We have to make sure before we toss him anywhere-’

‘We must be patient – Mundungus, put those spoons away!’

‘Where’s Severus? How long do we have to wait?’

 

‘SHUT UP EVERYONE!’

Exhaling harshly, Sirius glared at the dozen or members that were around him. ‘There will be no more talk of sending Harry away! He’s staying here until Snivellus gets the potion ready. Until then, we are giving him the benefit of the doubt. Am I clear?’

‘Nicely put, Sirius.’

Standing at the doorway of the room was an amused Albus. With a beaming smile, the old man glided in the room and stood next to Sirius, where he turned and frowned at the Order members. ‘We must be rational in this trying time and wait till we have all the answers. After all, one must listen to the past if progress is to be made’.

Silence fell in the crowded room as mulish faces turned away, mouths pressed shut and eyes looking away from Albus’s hard eyes.

‘Thank you. Now onto more pressing matters.’ Motioning for Sirius to sit down with his hand – Sirius gladly collapsed next to Remus, pressing himself to the other’s side – Albus stared down at his Order. ‘Severus has informed me that the potion still requires three weeks’ – ignoring the groans from his once students at that information, Albus continued without a second’s hesitation – ‘Right now, Harry has been placed under a strong stupefy that should hold him for a few days. When he wakes, we are to treat him with caution. Though he _may_ be innocent, we must not forget that he is very, _very_ , dangerous. Do not goad him in anything, but watch him carefully. If he attacks anyone, stun him and inform me immediately. Do I make myself clear?’

Watching as all the members grudgingly agreed, Sirius relaxed and brought a shaking hand to his forehead. Sirius had been scared for one moment there.  Whatever feelings he may have had for Harry, Sirius had vowed to put them aside until the truth was out. The Order though… well, let’s just say that Sirius knew blood lust when he saw it.

(Sirius prayed that Harry’s body was still weak enough that the stupefy would last a much longer time than a few days).

Sirius should have learnt by now not to jinx anything.

 

As the Order members argued hotly with each other, voices raised to match their tempers, Harry opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.

 

(҉)

_In his cell, away from the prying eyes of the world, Harry’s sanity had cracked._

_Like the rocks above the turmoiled seas, his mind withered away with the pain that always washed over him. His sanity splintered, leaving a fissure of scattered thoughts and garbled sentences behind. And the sea had washed down the fissure, smothering everything under its red hues and copper taste, choking him until he drowned in the blood, mouth still open as he screamed his pleas for help._

_In the beginning, those days had been rare._

_Clinging onto thoughts of his family and friends, Harry had fought tooth and nail against the pain, holding on to his memories as if they were more precious than the sun. He stood tall under the loving touches of the Keepers and had kneeled with a mocking smile as Tom stripped him of his pride._

_But pain was an obliterator._

_It dug under skin and blood –  ceaseless in its hunger, unforgiving in its touch. Slowly, like the birth of a somnolent star, the pain ate its way until it was feeding on Harry’s heart; each bite an echo of a forgotten heartbeat, each heartbeat a reminder that his days started and ended with pain._

_Until, in the end, nothing else mattered but the pain._

_Memories faded as the days passed in a blur._

_Pride and strength became nothing more than silly illusions that had no place in his cage._

_Tom became the Red Eyed Man._

_‘No’ became the only word he knew (its importance long lost, only knowing that he had to say it, only knowing that there was nothing else to say)._

_And pain became his friend as he howled at his tormentors – humanity reduced to nothing; nothing mattering but the need to escape from his captors._

_Yet the mind is an unfathomable organ._

_In moments of silence, those precious seconds when Harry was alone and away from the Red Eyed Man and the Keepers, Harry’s mind would calm and he would be able to think again._

_Sometimes those seconds stretched into days (the Red Eyed Man did love his games) – days of blessed silence where Harry was himself again.  Where words took meaning again and he remembered what the ‘no’ stood for. Where he wondered about the Outside and dreamed of the touch of the sun._

_But his relief was always short lived. Sometimes a memory returned to Harry (a face with curly hair or a man with ginger hair) and the Red Eyed Man would be there again, asking him about things Harry’s didn’t remember._

_Harry would smile then – with teeth jagged and broken, blood stains smearing their once white façade._

_And the pain started again._

(҉)

Since the Red Eyed Man’s death, Harry had been getting better at holding onto his clear mind. His clarity came and went however, with the days he was wrapped in darkness changing like the changing tides. Some days he would be floating in the in-between, his mind the slave of both sides. On others, he would be slave only to one.

 

When Harry woke up in the unfamiliar room, the small part of himself that was already receding into the far corners of his mind realised that the lid that kept the soiled water hidden had broken open, releasing a tsunami of darkness over him.

But then that thought was gone and Harry was left staring at blood free dust motes.  He smiled harshly in the blinding light.

He was lying in a bed, unchained and without supervision.  He didn’t know where he was, but he was free of the Keepers.

And his magic was back.

Basking in the knowledge that the Keepers could not reach him wherever he was, Harry laughed brokenly and lifted his torso up so that he could look more closely where he was. Tossing the pristine blankets away from him, Harry jumped out of the bed, his broken body barely causing a twinge of discomfort (so used was he to his friend’s touch), and crouched on steady feet.

It was time to explore his new cage. But wait – what was that? Turning to the oak door on his left, Harry cocked his head and felt a smile stretch underneath his beard.

At hearing the loud voices waft through the closed door, Harry felt his smile stretch further.

He was not alone.

He laughed. 

It was time to play with some new friends and ask much needed questions.

 

(҉)

Remus had long stopped listening to the Order members' bickering, letting their shouts turn to murmurs in his head. Arms wound around Sirius (who was looking as exhausted as he felt), Remus suddenly felt the exhaustion of all the past years weigh on him. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes and leaned heavily against his lover (who simply closed his own eyes and nuzzled closer).

Harry Potter – the maybe-murderer.

Thinking of the young man upstairs, Remus felt a physical ache start in his chest. Hating himself for even thinking of it, Remus desperately prayed to Merlin that Harry was not innocent. Because…because the alternative would destroy both Sirius and himself.

As if his musings had conjured the man himself, Remus stiffened as he felt his heightened werewolf senses pick up a new scent. Eyes flying open in shock, Remus twisted his neck so that he was facing the stairwell.

He froze.

There, crouching with a twisted smile under a black beard, a weathered man was making his way down the stairs on all fours.  Emerald eyes, shining with maniac glee, were trained on the Order members, who in their bickering, were not aware of the new threat (and why was Harry even awake? The stupefy should have lasted for days and not hours!)

Remus wasn’t even aware that he had jumped off his seat until Sirius exclaimed angrily at being pushed to the floor and the Order turned as one to see what had caused Remus to hurt his partner.

They froze as they saw Harry creeping down the stairs.

Harry smiled back at them (his teeth sharp and stained red) and creeped closer until he was off the stairs and in the room directly adjacent to theirs.

Suddenly, in a flurry of movements, over a dozen wands were trained on Harry (whose smile only increased at the sight). Unconsciously, Remus was aware that Sirius was standing next to him, his own wand trained at Harry, eyes determined.

Swaying drunkenly, smile still etched on his face, Harry stood up from his crouched position and cocked his head.

The pendulum thrummed.

 

Albus broke the silence, his eyes shining with a determined light. Wand lowered, the old Professor cautiously walked towards Harry with his right hand turned up in submission. ‘Harry’, he stated in a calm voice, ‘you should still be resting upstairs.  We’ve only just transferred you from Azkaban.’

The man in question only smiled wider and crept closer to Albus until he was almost nose to nose with the old man (oblivious to the wands that were now directly pointing at his heart).

‘Where is the darkness gone?’ Harry croaked, his tongue absently licking his cracked lips. ‘The Keepers are always playing with me – did you take them away? Are you going to play with me now?’ he continued, mouth stretching wide at the thought of new things to play with.

‘Who would want to play with you, murderer?!’ shouted Vance.

Harry’s smile instantly transformed into a snarl, lips curling to show his jagged teeth. A dark look passed over his eyes and, before anyone could react, Harry was suddenly in front of the middle-aged man, right hand pressed over the other’s heart.

‘Boom, boom, BOOM, BOOM!’ Harry snarled into the frightened man’s ear. Nails digging into the man’s black robes, Harry cackled softly and leaned closely into the other’s face. ‘I can make this stop if you want. And when the red stops, shall I teach you how to play with it? Shall I teach you how it can flow and bend and BREAK IN EVERY WAY?!’ He cackled louder.

'Stupefy'.

Albus sighed and stared at Vance's shaken form. 'Did I not just say to be cautious around the man and not provoke him?'

At seeing only frightened and startled faces, Albus sighed again and lifted Harry's prone body with a short movement of his wand. Turning to Sirius, the old man continued in his calm voice. 'I think we should lock the door as a precaution next time.'

Sirius could only agree, his face a perfect mirror of the other members. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like? Dislike? Needs changing? Do tell!
> 
> Coming up: more misunderstandings and wait, is that James and Lily again?


	5. I'm afraid we won't be able to put you through. Mr Potter is under strict lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! 
> 
> I know it's been ages since I last updated, but fear not! I shall remain true to this story (though it might take me a millennia to finish it).
> 
> Without further ado, I present to you my next chapter:

_He was bound tightly, hands and feet wrapped in chains that forced him eagle spread on the unforgiving floor. The rest of his body was frozen in time, muscles unmoving and mouth sealed shut._

_Only his eyes could see – lids wide open, enchanted to remain open in the other’s presence._

_(Only his eyes showed the pain that he was in)._

_The Red Eyed Man was watching him with a look of pure pleasure, sitting regally on a throne that he materialised hours ago, when he had first began his fun. Next to him were two Keepers, one on both side of the throne. Dark hoods barely hid their glee at seeing their favourite toy in pain. They had been promised time with their toy after their Lord finished, so stood patiently waiting._

_The Red Eyed Man’s wand was pointed directly at Harry’s heart, the tip pulsating randomly with a harsh light that echoed its effect on Harry’s own heart - each spark of light one heartbeat permitted._

_It was torture for the man on the floor. Torture to just lay spread on the floor, forced to hear his heart stop pumping and feel his body break with the pressure._

_If that wasn't enough, the Red Eyed Man's spell did more than just play with Harry’s heart._

_It fed off it._

_Every hour it latched onto a section of his heart, leaving tattered holes behind that made it harder for it to beat when it was given the time._

_Both the prisoner and the executor knew that over time the heart would fail and fall._

_There was no question that the Red Eyed Man wanted to ask the prisoner, no specific reason that he had wasted hours playing with the prisoner’s heart._

_No reason at all besides the pleasure that came from hurting the other._

 

(҉)

He woke with a gasp, green eyes flying open abruptly. Body full of adrenaline and the need to find a place to hide, Harry only just started to rise up when he abruptly stopped.

Though his eyesight had long since deteriorated to shades and blurs, Harry was not blind. 

There was a woman sitting next to his bed, her eyes serene and calm as she watched him. She had long dirty blonde hair, and wore a myriad of mismatched jewellery on her arms and neck that clashed with her yellow dress.

Feeling himself tense at the sight of the unknown woman, he clenched his hands and flung himself upward so that he was sitting up and facing her.

Harry’s magic thrummed in anger, ready to defend him should he need it. He stared defiantly at her, daring her to attack him.

Her response was not something he would have ever imagined (nor for that matter, his own response to her).

Silver blue eyes blinked and stared into his, warm and without hate. A small smile lifted her lips, so that her face transformed into one that of a loving mother or angel. Tears of joy welled in her eyes, filling them with a silver sheen, though they did not fall.

Harry knew how evil looked like, knew how anger and hatred could reform a soul into something grotesque, something that found pleasure in the suffering of others.

He knew it intimately.

Just as he knew that this woman was neither evil nor hateful. She would not harm him, this he was sure of.

Immediately, he felt himself relax.

The woman beamed. Pushing back a stray blonde lock from her face, she beckoned Harry to lie down again. ‘Rest, my friend,’ she said in a soft lilting voice that calmed Harry, ‘you are safe with me.’

Refusing to let his guard down completely, Harry cocked his head at her and raised an eyebrow. He had not missed the way she had said “safe with me” and not “here”. There was a big difference, and Harry did not intend to relax until he knew more.

‘Where am I?’ he croaked.

Though grateful that the darkness in his head had sunk back for the moment, Harry did not trust his mind to stay this way forever. He needed to know as much as he could before his insanity bled out. His memories of those days were never good, mere images than anything else (the last thing he remembered was a room full of people and wands pointed at him).

‘You are at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. You were transferred from Azkaban due to new information coming out. Until this information can be investigated further, you are to stay here for the time being.’

It was the truth, he was sure of it. But it was not the whole truth. Just as he opened his mouth to bombard the woman with more questions, he frowned.

She was looking at him with pity in her eyes, as if she understood his pain (he scoffed at that – _no one could understand his pain_ ). Yet she was also looking at him as if she knew _him_ personally. Her face looked, Harry imagined, as a friend would if they were lying to someone they cared about. (He appreciated the sentiment, but Harry was under no illusions- he did not have friends).

To make it more confusing, Harry didn't know of any order or of a place called Azkaban. All he knew, _all he ever knew_ , was his cage and the darkness that came with it. Yet the woman was speaking as if Harry should know what she was talking about, as if he should recognise the words.

‘Who are you?’ he asked instead, voice only a little softer than hers.

If possible, her eyes seemed to bleed more, sorrow twisting those silver blue orbs so much that Harry thought she was going to start crying. She leaned forward and clasped his arm warmly. ‘I am your friend, Harry. You found me once, a long time ago, and you saved me. Let me save you now.’

Harry's face crumpled at the touch, hot tears dripping from his eyes, nose turning red as it ran unhindered.

He did not know this woman and yet she did not hate him. For Harry, who had experienced nothing but hate and evil all his life, this was something entirely unprecedented.  He did not know what to do with it.

All he could do was cry.

The woman seemed to agree; her own tears falling from her face. Laughing through them, the woman clasped Harry’s hand tighter ( _he cried harder for that, eyes glued to their joined hands where, for the first time in_ forever, _someone was touching him not to cause pain, but to comfort him)_.

‘Sleep now, Harry,’ she said lovingly. ‘Rest and be better. There is much for us to discuss when you are stronger’.

(҉)

 

Harry woke a few hours later, feeling more rested than he could ever recall being. At the behest of the blonde woman, whose eyes he could not refuse, Harry had willingly nestled back in the bed and closed his eyes, put at ease as she sang him a soft lullaby. 

His mind sluggish with sleep, Harry took his time waking up. Slowly, his eyes roamed the room he was in, taking the time to analyse the light (so bright compared to the darkness) and the cluttered furniture. Mind still free from the clutches of his insanity, Harry carefully took in the detail of everything, searing them into his memory for future use.

He had spent years locked in the one cage, and outside of that one _beautiful_ moment of freedom he had experienced when he killed the Red Eyed Man, he had known nothing else.  Now, looking at the room he was in, Harry knew that he was still not free. He could see, from the multiple wards on the door, that he was still a prisoner.

‘Harry? How are you feeling?’

Harry turned to the woman next to him. 

It was a different woman this time, polar opposite to the angel-like woman from before.  Brown curly hair fell down neatly to the woman’s shoulder, a dark red robe enveloping her form conservatively.  She was beautiful in her own way, Harry thought, but her sight did not ease him.  For her eyes, chocolate brown, were gazing at him with fear and trepidation (she tried to hide it, but Harry knew fear intimately).

He was awake in an instant.

Sitting up abruptly, Harry turned a cold gaze towards her. ‘Who are you?’ he asked roughly, voice tinged with anger (though the anger was more directed at himself for not seeing the woman immediately when he woke).

The woman jumped in response, her forced calm crumbling as she was faced with his fury. ‘It’s me, Harry, Hermione. I’m a healer now, so the Order asked me to watch over you and help you heal from your injuries.’

If he was angry before, he was furious now (and this time, it was all directed at the woman). It twisted his face into an ugly snarl, and a low hiss emitted from his mouth at the woman’s sheer _audacity_. His magic boiled under his skin, filling his core with new strength. It practically levitated his body out of the bed, so that he was standing on the opposite side of the woman, the bed in between, and his palm thrust out to point at her heart.

After being separated for so long, Harry’s magic no longer needed words or focus. Should he ever need anything, his magic would react instinctively, ready to _obliterate_ anyone who so much as looked at Harry wrong.

‘Who are you?’ he asked again, deliberate and slow.  He was sick and tired of asking the same question; he wanted to know who these people were, and why they kept pretending to know him when it was clear that _he had never met them before in his life._  

The woman stood up as well, her palms up in submission. Her fear had subsided, and it was clear that the healer in her was coming out, her eyes beseeching him to calm down and rest, her voice a soft tool that echoed in the still air, used hundreds of time with other patients.

‘It’s me, Harry, Hermione. I know that you hate me right now, and that you don’t want to see me, but I’m here to _help_ you. Please Harry, let me cast a quick charm on you to see how your body is holding up.’ She drew herself up and frowned for a second, her eyes raking Harry’s form. ‘You really shouldn’t have gotten up you know, it might put your healing back by a week.’

Harry froze. That last sentence she said, it rang with familiarity. Her name meant nothing to him, nor did her face look familiar, but that tone she used… it was said with exasperation and finality.  A command.  He had heard it somewhere before.

‘Please, Harry,’ she said softly, pleading now. ‘Come back to the bed, I promise I won’t hurt you. The vows I took when I became a mediwitch will accept nothing less.’

Harry refused to be swayed by her voice.  She was not the other woman, the blonde with the angelic voice. No, this woman, though persuasive, did not have the absolute trust and love that the other woman held in her eyes for him. He would not take a chance with her. He could not. 

He raised his right arm, fingers splayed wide, and asked his magic to immobilise her. Without uttering anything, Harry froze the witch and her brown eyes, frozen wide, were afraid again.  He smiled harshly and prowled closer to her frozen form.

‘Do not dare to make presumptions, Ms Hermione. I do not know you, and I most certainly do not trust you,’ he growled angrily, voice black with his rage. Standing a mere centimetre from her face, Harry grinned manically and caressed her terrified face. ‘If you wish to survive, you will tell me how to get out of here.’

Her eyes screamed for him to stop, but Harry refused to be swayed. Momentarily unfreezing her mouth, he glared at her, daring her to shout. ‘ How do I get out of this place?’ he asked again, voice like steel, void of any warmth.

Her lips were trembling, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Yet despite her fear, a soft whisper wafted through the air, ‘out this door, down a flight of stairs, you’ll see the front door at the end of the corridor. But Harry – ’

With a wave of his hand she was frozen again, and with barely a glance at her face, he was out of the door.

Walking up to the oak door in front of him, Harry stopped in front of it. Heavy wards circled the door, interlaying and intersecting with each other, acting as one lock.  Undaunted by the sheer strength of the wards, Harry closed his eyes and reached out with his magic. With a whispered thought, and a twitch of a finger, the wards fell.

Stepping out, Harry gently closed the door behind him and activated the wards again so that if anyone passed by, it would look the same.  Stepping out on a polished wooden floor, Harry finally took the time to look around. 

Taking in the glittering wallpaper and the ornate statue of a snake opposite his door, Harry frowned. This place looked familiar…as if from a dream. Or a dream of a dream.  Completely forgetting about his prisoner in the room behind him, Harry looked around him. Immediately to his left, the corridor stretched out until it stopped in front of a dark door, dark shadows shrouding its façade. To his right, the corridor went on for a bit before it ended with a grand staircase, thin rails barely clinging on around it.

Looking up at the ceiling above him, Harry felt as if he was being smothered. The very air of the house seemed heavy, as if it was alive and pulsating with hunger, pressing down on its inhabitants and wearing them down.  Yet there was no malevolent intent behind the hunger. Frowning, Harry sent a sliver of his magic into the house’s roof, trying to seek out the magical core of the house (somehow he knew there was one, though where that knowledge came from he did not know).

Oh.

Harry winced as a silent scream tore through him. The house was dying, the very fabric of its materials rusting with age and disuse despite its clean facade, it’s magic failing it. No wonder it sought out its inhabitants, reaching out with a starving hunger for their magic and help.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry whispered sympathetically, well aware of the pain that being ignored caused, ‘but I can’t help you right now. I need to leave this place.’

Breaking his connection with the house’s core, Harry cautiously made his way to the staircase. Feeling stronger than ever before (perhaps there was some truth to that healer), Harry gently walked down the stairs. His magic aided him, smothering the sound of his steps and hiding him from any unwelcome eyes.

Coming to the end of the staircase, Harry saw that the landing separated into an intersection. On one side, he could see light spilling underneath a door, the soft murmurings under it telling him that there were people there. Immediately crossing that idea from his head, Harry turned to his right and followed the long hallway to another door. 

At the end of the hallway there was an umbrella stand and what looked to be a window completely covered by its curtains. Hesitant, Harry stopped and listened to the soft murmurings from the room behind him. Deciding that no one had noticed him, he took the last few steps and reached out for the door. Yet, just as his finger touched the wood, a voice broke the silence and scattered his thoughts.

‘Mister Potter, I’m glad to see you awake and all better.’

Startled at being caught, Harry spun around and raised his arm in a ready stance, mind skimming through numerous spells he could use to get out. He released the magic that was keeping him out of sight (clearly it didn't work against everyone), and pulled it all within him into one vibrant ball of energy.

He was going to escape if it was the last thing he ever did. Harry refused to be put into another cell, refused to be trapped _again!_ More furious at himself for being caught than the person who had caught him, Harry looked straight in the eyes of the person he was willing to kill if it meant his freedom.

He snarled when he saw who it was.

It was the old man! The one that tried to kill him that fateful day, the one who drugged him to find out information about the Red Eyed Man, and the one who was responsible for putting Harry back in his cell all those months ago.

The Death Eater.

Feeling a surge of fury stronger than what he had felt in the room above with the witch, Harry growled and glared threateningly at the old man who had the nerve to _smile_ at him. The old fool wasn’t even holding his wand, seemingly content with smiling benevolently at Harry, hands clasped together in front of his bright purple robes.

All Harry wanted to do was swipe that smile of the other’s face.

‘Your Master is dead, you foolish man,’ he croaked, ‘He will never return to you, I made sure of it. You will release me, now, or suffer the same consequences as he.’

The old man frowned and his brows furrowed in thought, as if he was unsure about what Harry was talking about. Shrugging his shoulders as if to say he would figure it out later, the wizard raised his arms in surrender instead. ‘Peace, Harry. I do not wish to harm you. We removed you from Azkaban because of new evidence for your trial. You are in our custody for now, until we can prove your innocence or guilt. We will treat you to the best of our ability.’

Harry’s anger only increased at hearing this. They were the same words that the blonde woman had told him, and similar to her, Harry knew that some facts were omitted. In his anger, he thumped his fist against the wall next to him, rattling the curtained frame. ‘Tell me the truth, Death Eater! Or – ’

‘HALF-BLOODS AND MUDBLOODS! FILTH, BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHER!’

Harry nearly jumped in fright at hearing the sudden screeching in his ear. Keeping one wary eye on the old man (who had gone unnaturally still at hearing Harry call him a Death Eater), he turned his other to the portrait, where he was met with the ugliest woman he had ever seen. Her yellow face was stretched taut as mad eyes roamed the corridor, mouth gaping wide with drool as she screamed abuse.

‘SCUM! BY-PRODUCTS OF DIRT AND VILENESS! BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE!’

Now, if Harry hadn’t been so occupied with the portrait and keeping an eye on the old man, he might have noticed that the moment the woman had began shouting, the murmurings from the room at the end of the corridor had stopped. He might even have noticed that the door had opened, revealing the wands of a few Order members.

As it was, Harry’s attention was solely on the portrait and old man. As the woman continued her incessant shouting though, Harry growled in frustration and momentarily shifted his whole focus to the nagging thing on the wall. _How was anyone meant to focus with that vile thing in their ears?_

Completely unaware of the few Order members now standing behind the old man, he waved his hand at the portrait and watched with satisfaction as the glass cracked and shattered. The woman gaped for a moment, shocked and disbelieving, before she too cracked and froze. With another wave from his hand, the portrait fell from the wall with a resounding crack, shattering with the impact.

Nodding in satisfaction, Harry turned back to the old man. His mouth twitched upwards when he saw the shocked look on the man’s face, but upon noticing finally that they were not alone, his half smile disappeared. Instead, Harry wore a grim look and pointed his finger at everyone standing in front of him.

‘Let me go, now. Or I shall do worse to you,’ he said in a threatening tone.

Silence met his threat. The Order members, and indeed the old man as well, seemed to be in a state of shock. Their eyes were jumping from the now destroyed portrait of the garish woman to Harry, disbelieving that a man just out of prison could break a spell that not even _Dumbledore_ could.

Feeling claustrophobic by the silence and the intense stares of the people gathered in front of him, Harry took a step back so that his back was pressed against the door. He needed to get out, and get out fast! Reaching backwards for the door knob, Harry was just about to stun them and make a break for it when one word stopped him.

‘Harry?’

The voice sounded devastated and broken, tone coarse and ragged like Harry’s own. Desperate.

Feeling an immediate connection with the owner of that voice, Harry dropped his arms and turned around. Ignoring the old man and all the other members (who were still standing around looking shocked), he zoned in to the lone man standing a bit away from the rest.

The man had shoulder length hair, with silky, black locks framing his face lavishly. He looked to be in his fifties, tired lines and wrinkles already settling on his aristocratic features. A dark red robe curled around his body protectively, as if hiding the man from the others. Yet, what struck Harry the most about the man’s appearance were his eyes.  They were a soft grey colour, and they glittered with unshed tears. Those eyes…they screamed of hurt and pain.  Of sleepless nights and endless days in darkness.

This man, whoever he was, had been through hell and worse. Not knowing what to do with that information, Harry decided to stay for a moment longer (he could always kill everyone later). ‘Who are you?’ he asked roughly (and that question was really annoying him).

If anything, the man looked more devastated at hearing that question. Alarmed, Harry took a hesitant step forward.  Similar to what he experienced with the blonde woman from before, Harry felt that he could trust this man.  He took another step forward and then another, until he was standing in front of the man.

‘Who are you people?’ he asked instead, softly though, so as to not disturb the frozen statues around them (though Harry could see in his peripheral that the old man had broken from his stupor and was now simply watching him).

The man did not hesitate in his response, seemingly pulling forward some unseen strength. His back straightened, and his tone sharpened, transforming himself into someone else entirely. ‘ We are the Order of the Phoenix. A few weeks ago, a Death Eater called Dolohov had his trial at the Ministry of Magic. Under the truth potion, he revealed that Voldemort might have framed you all those years ago.  With this new information, the public went wild and, until we can prove your innocence and guilt, they demanded that we take you out of your cell. You will remain in our custody for a few weeks, until our own Potions Master can brew the truth potion. You will then be given another trial.’

Harry blinked, taking in the new information. He struggled to go through the information, as there were phrases and words that he did not understand. His mind was still a bit slow in joining everything together, a by-product of his time with the Keepers and Red Eyed Man. Although…one thing in particular jumped out to Harry…one thing that the man did not mention.

‘What are you seeking to gain from me?’ he asked angrily, ignoring the confused looks that answered him. Pointing to the old man, who was doing an interesting impression of a fish out of water, Harry continued, ‘you’re all Death Eaters, and now that I killed your _precious_ master, you should know that you will get nothing from me.’

To say the Order was shocked would be an understatement. Silence met his words, disbelieving faces looking at Harry uncomprehendingly. Wands seemingly forgotten, the six or so people that had amassed in the small hallway looked akin to frozen statues.

The man that Harry was currently speaking to seemed to be just as taken aback.

A niggling feeling of suspicion circled Harry as he saw their reaction. _That_ was not how Death Eaters responded. In fact, thinking back on the room he had woken up in, and the nice witch that was there when he had first awoken, Harry suddenly had a sinking suspicion that he might _possibly_ be wrong.

Feeling thrown off suddenly, Harry turned to the old man. This one he was sure was a Death Eater. ‘You tried to kill me,’ he stated flatly, ‘ you tried to find out where the Red Eyed Man kept his supplies. Only Death Eaters would want either of those things _.’_

Murmurings swept the hallway at this statement, and the old man, quiet up to this point, raised his hand for silence. ‘No, Mister Potter, I believe you are wrong there. We are not Death Eaters, but the Order of the Phoenix. We stand for everything that they do not.  On the battle of the Red Eve, we raised our wand against you for we were wary of what you might do. In our interrogation, we were only seeking out information that would help us chase the remainder of Voldermort’s taint. We have never been, nor will we ever be, Death Eaters.’

It was too much.

Harry couldn’t deal with all of this new information, his body already overwhelmed from the world he was suddenly thrust back in.  Finding out that he might be wrong was just the tipping stone.

Staggering back until his spine slammed into the door behind him, Harry slid down in an ungraceful heap. Everything was sideways, his world shaking. Black spots flitted through his vision, and Harry gasped desperately for air, suddenly finding himself under the sea of blood in his head. Waves were crushing around him, tossing and pulling him everywhere, slamming him into every rock in the ocean.

He couldn’t deal with it.

The box that had held his sanity cracked, spilling all of his darkness around him in an unending swirl.

He shut his eyes, letting the darkness consume him again.

 

(҉)

 

The room was silent, so quiet that if anyone so much as breathed too deeply it would have sounded like an erupting gasket.

Sirius and Remus were cuddled together on the couch, arms wound tightly around each other. Hermione and Ron were similarly sitting next to each other on the loveseat on the left of the couch (an addition that was only recently added). Severus and Alistair, the more paranoid of the group, were standing at the back of the room, bodies facing the door. 

No one spoke.

 

After Harry had feinted in the hallway, Albus had silently waved his wand and carried a floating Harry back to his room. A few minutes later he had come down the stairs with a red faced Hermione. Faced with a bunch of frozen Order members, he summoned everyone back to the living room, knowing that the situation had changed somewhat.

Upon arriving in the room, Albus had gone straight to the fireplace and called for Luna, the only other Order member who had spoken to Harry since he had awoken.

Here they were now, waiting patiently for Luna to step out. He had moved from the fireplace and was now standing to the side of the mantelpiece, arms behind his back.

The minutes passed.

 

As the fireplace flared greed ten minutes later, and the witch in question finally stepped out silently, Albus couldn't help but note that she chose to sit away from the others. The bright witch seemed to be ignoring everyone, focusing instead on Albus. She was undoubtedly waiting for him to get to the point.

Her cold gaze could have put Severus to shame. 

Shifting from his position near the mantelpiece, Albus coughed to get everyone else's attention, smiling sadly as he saw the downtrodden faces look up to him (he liked to believe that Severus was also disheartened, though even Albus could admit that that was a bit of a long shot).

When everyone seemed to be paying him attention, he turned towards Luna and Hermione and, in a gentle voice, asked them about their first encounter. ‘Miss Lovegood, Mrs Weasley, both of you were with Harry before he came downstairs. Would you care to share your thoughts on what you made of Harry?’

Albus looked expectantly at Hermione, usually the outspoken of the two, but her gaze was withdrawn and her head bowed against Ronald's shoulder.

The minutes passed.

Luna, who had had enough of everyone’s idiocy (and of the silence), was the one that spoke up this time.

The blonde witch stood up from her position and went to stand next to Albus at the front of the room. She turned and addressed the room with steel in her eyes and anger in her voice. ‘Harry Potter is innocent, like I’ve told everyone from the beginning. I talked with him, and found no evil in his heart. He is hurt, and lost, and does not remember anything of who he is or who we are. All he knows is his pain. And if _anyone_ so much as touches one hair on his body with ill-intent, well,’ she said almost sweetly, ‘suffice to say that they won’t live to see another day.’

Albus almost smiled at Luna’s firm belief in Harry, but he could not afford to disillusion himself to the man's danger. ‘Miss Lovegood, while – ’

‘No, Albus. I have watched you all deny Harry from afar all these years, content with my own belief, but no more. Harry is my friend, and I will not allow him to be so unfairly treated. He is innocent, as you will soon find out, but right now he is lost and adrift. You do not need to fear him. Only me.’

Moody snorted and stepped away from his favourite shadowy corner. ‘You cannot scare me, Lovegood. I don’t care what you see in him. The man is dangerous, and until I know for certain that he won’t stab us all in our sleep, I’ll damn well take as many precautions as I want. If one of those precautions is keeping him tied up indefinitely, then so be it.’

Before Luna could reply, Sirius stood up from his position with Remus and joined her, facing Moody with a thunderous face. Listening to Luna as she passionately spoke about his godson had caused old feelings to resurface. His tone, as he answered Moody, was hard as granite. ‘You forget, Alistor, that you are in the the House of Black. Though I have allowed the Order to use this place for Headquarters, I would advise you to not forget who you talk to. Though I believe that precautions must be taken, I agree with Luna on this. The man I saw in the hallway did not recognise anyone. That fact alone changes everything! We need to be careful how we approach this whole situation, we cannot ruin this opportunity to find out the truth!.’

Moody growled and stepped forward, his glass eye spinning in agitation. ‘Protecting a murderer, Sirius? Last time I checked, you were on the same page as me.’

‘How dare you?’ growled Sirius, eyes flashing dangerously.

Remus, in response to his lover's anger, snarled from his position on the couch, eyes yellow as they looked to Moody.

Alarmed at how fast things were spinning out of control, Albus stepped forward until he was in the middle. ‘Gentlemen, please –’

‘Imbeciles, the whole lot of you,’ drawled a cold voice, unrepentant of interrupting the Headmaster. Onyx eyes flashing, the Potions master glared at everyone. ‘The man that you have tied in the room upstairs is a _dangerous_ one. Dangerous _because_  he does not remember anything. Only a fool would think otherwise.’

'No one asked for your opinion, Severus!'

'Oh yes, I could see that you were doing better on your own.'

'Why you... Harry Potter is _my_ godson, and I will -' 

'Your godson? He's a murderer! The sooner you remember that, the sooner we can subdue him!'

'Shut up, Alistor -'

‘ENOUGH!’ Albus thundered, his magic nearly smothering everyone as it ran uncontrolled around the room.

In the following silence, he brought back his magic a little, but did not lower his voice. ‘Stop your squabbling at once. You are _not_ children, and acting like one will get you nowhere!

‘Thank you. Now, please. Until the rest of the Order comes, let us discuss  _like adults_ , what we need to do.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...how did it go? How did you like sane(ish) Harry? 
> 
> COMING UP: The Order see more of Harry's insanity, some things are cleared up, and a budding friendship is made.


End file.
